


Are We Killing Time? (Are We Killing Each Other?)

by orangeyouglad8



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeyouglad8/pseuds/orangeyouglad8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon. Between S2-S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are We Killing Time? (Are We Killing Each Other?)

**Author's Note:**

> Importing this little ditty from Tumblr. Enjoy!

Dread.

It grows hot and deep with every step back to Clarke.

You straighten your back, lift your chin.

Remember the words spoken not so long ago, _you worry about your people, I’ll worry about mine._

Watch as realization sinks in. Eyes full of confusion turn first to understanding, to disbelief, to anger.

To ice.

You don’t move, barely breathe. The tense air between you threatening to ignite brighter than the flame that opened the heavy door.

Clarke fights the tears that pool in her eyes. The heavy undercurrent so alive under the realization of your deal. Heartbreak. Clear and open on her face.

A swallow against the lump forming quickly in your throat as you watch every emotion play out  across from you.

Bitter.

And you try. Try to pull the mask back down, try to become _Heda_.

There are flashes of it.

But you need Clarke to understand.

“I do care, Clarke. But I made this choice with my head, not my heart.”

Your own voice wavers, breaks.

Never reaching the timbre of strength, conviction.

Too soft. Too full of feeling.

Clarke’s face morphs, twists into desperation. Pleading.

It pangs in your heart.

_Love is weakness._

Duty, above all else.

Clarke will only see it as betrayal, no matter how many apologies fall unpracticed and foreign from the lips of _Heda_.

 _Heda_ who apologizes for nothing.

 _Heda_ who made the decision with the souls of her people upon her shoulders.

 _Heda_ who will face the ire and loathing of the girl Lexa has grown to care for so deeply.

“May we meet again,” a whisper.

A prayer.

You turn before you break, a small gasp slipping through your lips at the way Clarke’s eyes plead.

How she can see everything breaking.

The glimmer of hope, of a future gone in an instant.

Your heart beating wildly in your chest, fighting every move, every step away until it breaks noiselessly inside you.

Every step taking you further and further from the girl who fell from the sky, who now faces an uncertain future.

It’s impossible not to see flashes of death all around..

Clarke’s body broken and bloodied.

Lifeless.

You swallow down the bile that rises in your throat, heavy and burning.

Focus on your people wrapped in blankets, shivering and freezing.

The ones tortured for their blood.

Close your eyes and breathe in, quell the storm raging madly in your heart.

Offering up a silent prayer to whomever is listening that the plan works, that Clarke makes it out alive.

**Xx**

The Mountain falls. The scouts bring news with joy on their faces, tales of celebrations in the streets of Polis. None of the _maunon_ left alive.

Clarke.

“And what of the _skaikru_?”

“Alive. _Heda kom Skaikru_ saved them all.”

A breath of relief you didn’t realize you were holding. Tense muscles relax.

A broken look from blue eyes blazing in your memory, a twist of your stomach.

A gut punch.

“Very well, keep an eye on them.”

And when you’re alone.

An inhale. Sharp in your lungs.

Clarke.

Alive.

Vision grows blurry with the tears you will not shed.

Relief and happiness flood through your veins. Pride.

Sorrow.

A sadness deep inside of what could have been, what was lost.

Everything all at once washing over you like the tide, relentless and unforgiving.

**Xx**

“Clarke left her people.”

Your stomach sinks at Indra’s statement.  “Explain.” You try to keep the tremor from your voice, harden it against the fear that threatens to rise up from your gut.

“The scouts said she followed _skaikru_ back to their camp, but did not follow them through the gate.”

“Where is she?”

“She went east. We are tracking her.”

A nod. “Keep tracking her but do not be seen.”

“Yes, _Heda_.” Indra bows and turns to leave, not voicing any displeasure she may have at the assignment.

“Indra?” The warrior turns around and waits, “Tell them they will regret losing her.”

“Yes, _Heda_.”

The images come, fast and unwanted.

Clarke alone.

Stubbornly making her way through the territory.

Memories of her heavy gait and brash behavior in the quiet of the trees.

Fear grips you, hard and fast.

Clarke has never learned how to hunt, to fish.

Clarke who had hallucinations from eating the wrong berries.

Clarke who fell from the sky and onto the hard, unforgiving ground, will be fending for herself.

Clarke, the girl who has fled to the woods for penance, the new burden of death and leadership heavy and permanent on her shoulders.

The girl you left to bear that burden alone.

**Xx**

The cries of _Heda_ ring out loud and free from the relief camp.

The area is crowded and busy, the smell of old wounds and death clinging in the air.

And yet the people are happy, relieved.

Safe.

Healing.

Cheering for you as you walk through, greeting those who are healthy enough to recognize you.

Hands reach out for you and you grasp as many as you can, firm. Strong.

Rage ignites in your bones, familiar and warm.

Your people ravaged. Drained. Caged.

For what?

You push the image of heartbroken blue eyes to the back of your memory. 

Away.

Away from this. From something that will never be fully understood.

From the ache of the spirit inside of you at the sight of the wounded, the frail. Seen with your eyes but felt on your body.

The pride you feel for getting them out swells hot and heavy.

The heartbreak that threatens to push up from your stomach and consume your every inch stays there.

Buried.

Buried under the cries and whimpers of these people.

Your people.

The precious few you were able to get out, to save.

But, that nagging reminder prickling in your subconscious.

It wouldn’t have been possible without _them._

Without _her_.

**Xx**

It’s not long before the rumors begin milling through Polis.

Whispers.

Whispers about Clarke.

 _Heda kom Skaikru_ felled the mountain.

 _Heda kom Skaikru_ did what we could not.

 _Heda kom Skaikru_ killed all the _maunon._

They buzz and flit around your ears, your stomach knots at every mention of Clarke, no matter how fleeting.

Happy for Clarke’s victory and yet hollow. Something unfinished hangs over your head, a dark cloud following wherever you go.

Clarke did it alone. Without you.

You left, forced her hand.

A victory that could have been shared between you now solely on the _skaikru_. Another truce, another coalition ruined by the Mountain. The last of them.

**Xx**

The whispers don’t stop.

They change, grow louder.

_Wanheda._

Chills spill down your spine the first time you hear it.

No one tells you who _Wanheda_ is, no one has to.

You know.

Feel it.

 _Clarke_.

The name holds power, fear. A value that Clarke will not realize rests on her head.

Everyone will want it.

It grips inside your chest. Unrelenting.

Unforgiving.

The grip on the sword pommel at your side fierce and white knuckled.

You close your eyes and take a breath, trying to steady your mind.

But, you cannot help but feel as if some part of your heart is out there.

Alone.

Cold.

Unprotected in the wilderness.

**Xx**

Indra walks into the throne room, nervous and quiet.

“Speak, Indra.”

“We lost Clarke.”

Your head spins and your throat dries. “What?”

“She slipped away, we’ve lost her trail.”

“Indra…”

“They’re still looking for her, but she does not want to be found.”

“How did this happen?”

“ _Wanheda_. She knows she’s being hunted.”

A quiet ferocity overcomes you. A growl slips from your throat. “How could the best trackers we have lose a girl who has never been alone in the woods before?”

Indra holds your gaze, you can see the flicker of anger, shame, just for a second. “She had help, _Heda_.”

Icy fear grips the pit of your stomach, threatening to overtake you. “Get. Out.”

_Wanheda._

Hunted for her head.

Out of sight.

Clarke.

Slipping through your fingers.

**Xx**

The nightmares come.

Different than before.

The same images, the same heavy faces watching as you open the box containing Costia’s head.

Can’t make yourself look away, needing to see it.

Make sure it’s really her.

The nightmares come again.

The same images except it’s not Costia.

This time Clarke’s eyes look back. Open and lifeless.

You wake with a start every time.

The sweat coating your body, lungs gasping for air.

Clarke.

Alone.

 _Wanheda_.

The mystical power of Death thrumming through her veins with every heartbeat.

The mystical power that people will kill for.

Kill _Wanheda_ , command death.

You can feel the Ice Queen’s desire.

Strong and alive.

And fear.

Fear that Clarke has no idea the crown that rests on her golden head.

Fear that Clarke will stumble upon someone who will sell her out.

Fear that the bounty hunters will find her soon and deliver her to the highest bidder.

You cannot let that happen, won’t let it happen.

Needing Clarke whole and alive.

Needing Clarke to lead the sky people. To strengthen the coalition.

Needing Clarke.

**Xx**

The trackers are standing before you, not meeting your eyes.

“Would any of you care to explain your failures?”

Silence. Deafening.

“I find it unacceptable.”

“ _Heda_ , we picked up the trail again two days ago but los-” He stops at the glare you give him.

“You are all removed from the task. Leave. You will regret crossing me anytime soon.”

Titus waits until you’re alone again before he speaks, the questions alive in his tone, his posture. “ _Heda?_ ”

“I will have _Wanheda_ here.”

“Do you truly believe in this power?”

A flicker of her eyes, the angry flashes you saw in them so many times. The ruthless way she tried to help her people.

Your heart flips.

“Yes.”

It is Indra who stops him, “We must find _Wanheda_ before _Azgeda_.”

Something clicks.

Strong and hot inside.

You glance at Indra and she nods, small and nearly imperceptible.

“Find the Prince.”

**Xx**

He walks quietly into the throne room flanked by your guards, a secretive smile on his face.

He bows, “ _Heda_.”

You wait a beat, watching as his body language changes from sure to hesitant.

“I have a proposition for you.”

“What kind of proposition?”

“One that, should you succeed, will result in the removal of your banishment.”

He stands straighter before you, “What do you require of me, _Heda_.”

“I need you to find someone.”

**Xx**

Weeks pass.

Your dreams do not die, but grow stronger every night. Change and twist with new tortures and delights.

It’s beginning to show.

Your Nightbloods have gained on you, your moves rote and unimaginative.

Going through the motions in every sense of the word, waiting on news of Clarke.

Exhausted and tired and fearing for _Wanheda_ in a way only few would.

Rumblings of resistance grow with each day. Questions of your leadership, your command.

Your blood boils hot underneath your implacable facade.

Questions have come before only to be quelled by your decisions.

True showings of strength.

But _Azgeda_ grows more daring.

The thorn in your side digging it’s way deeper and deeper, not to be ignored.

The rumblings grow louder with every day that _Wanheda_ roams the land.

The power hungry salivating for the blood that flows through Clarke’s veins.

No news comes.

Only whispers and gossip.

False sightings of the great _Wanheda_ , Mountain Slayer.

Terrorizing village after village, killing with pleasure.

The rumors clang around your heart.

Not one truth to be had among them, the pictures of Clarke painted with the excited words so far from who she is.

Every day you wake in a sweat, the morning light hours away from the horizon, blood pounding in your ears.

Every night you go to sleep with the same twisted gut, the same silent prayers. The quiet of the room around you doing nothing to drown out your thoughts.

**Xx**

Indra practically runs into the throne room, “He’s got her.”

Relief washes through you again. You close your eyes and nod your head and focus on breathing. In and out. In and out.

If only for a moment everything is calm.

“I saw them on the _Azgeda_ border. _Heda_ , she’s marching on us.”

And then it all falls into place.

The inevitable.

“How many?”

“I did not waste time counting them, I came here as soon as I located Clarke.”

A pause.

“Thank you, Indra.”

“ _Heda_ …they will be here shortly.”

A forgotten flutter of your heart, just once.

“I know. Prepare the guards. I don’t want any trouble at the gates.”

You dismiss everyone after Indra leaves with a curt bow, needing to prepare yourself.

Needing to prepare your heart.

That flutter again.

But dread seeps in, inky black.

Mixing with the clear water of relief just as your warpaint colors the washbasin every night.

You remember the way Clarke’s eyes looked at you the last time you met.

How they seared into you, full of pain.

You see them every night in your sleep.

Not knowing what to expect when you are face to face again.

She is not coming to Polis as she did in the nightmares.

In pieces. The blood drained from blushing cheeks, the life no longer bountiful.

No, she is not coming to Polis as she did in the nightmares.

But she is not coming to Polis as she did in dreams either.

**Xx**

His face is smug when he drags her in.

A bag over her head and her gait stumbling.

It stirs something deep within.

That fondness that was so strong months ago comes flaming back to life.

“ _Wanheda._ As promised.”

He shoves her to her knees and she falls heavily.

An act undeserving of the title placed on her shoulders.

You war with the urge to yell at him, make him pay for his disrespect. Trying to remain cool and collected even though your heart is thudding in your ears and anxiety has gripped your stomach.

The bag is removed from Clarke’s head and she squints against the bright sunlight searching for her captor, anger and resignation and fear alive in her eyes.

Expecting to see the Ice Queen.

Landing on you instead.

And blue eyes shift from resignation to disbelief.

You take in the cuts and bruises on the face that’s haunted your dreams, her body displaying signs of pain, exhaustion.

“I told you to bring her to me unharmed.”

“She did not come easy.”

You look down again and take stock of the girl before you. Her eyes wild, the shock swirling in them, churning to something else.

You feel a blip of pride. “No, I’d expect not.”

Blazing eyes hold your gaze.

Rage courses off of her. Like a stallion bucking against the saddle.

She is bent, but unbroken.

And she is here.

_Alive._

Not collapsing under the weight of the mountain but fighting to breathe. To live.

Not wholly herself but something different, changed.

Strong.

Reborn.

 _Wanheda_ before you.

Clarke Griffin no longer.

Another casualty of war.

Another invisible mark to add to the collection on your back. Or, rather, above your heart.

But a flicker, so small you almost miss it.

The fear leaves her eyes and you see her. _Clarke_.

Still there underneath the dirt and pain, the unbearable self loathing coursing through her veins.

You can see the wheels spinning in her mind as Roan discusses his banishment, the shock as he is addressed by his title before he is taken away by the guards.

She has been in the woods and in the dark for far too long

And then you are alone with her.

The uncertainty in Clarke’s eyes gives way to fury.

You try to soothe everything, noticing for the first time just how wild and savage she has become.

Her penance in the woods bringing out the animal inside her soul

“I’m sorry,” You reach out and remove Clarke’s mouth gag, keeping your voice soft, open.

That tenderness that always seems to slip through whenever Clarke is around.

The apology jumping from your tongue.

Heavy with so much unspoken between you.

Hoping to speak to the Clarke you see still inside.

“It had to be this way. I had to ensure _Wanheda_ didn’t fall into the hands of the Ice Queen.”

Clarke glares at you cold and unfeeling.

Quiet.

A withering stare, meant to be felt over every inch of your skin.

Hitting it’s mark.

But you do not waver.

Taking a breath, steeling yourself.

Watching as Clarke struggles to contain her rage, her ire. Her deep breaths as if she’s brimming with everything she’s trying to hold in.

Still soft, you try to reach out. To pull the glimmer of Clarke you see from within the feral girl before you.

“War is brewing, Clarke. I need you.”

Until she doesn’t hold it in any longer and spit lands forcefully on your face. Clarke’s screaming immediate, growing louder even as she’s dragged away.

Your heart sinks to your feet.

Clarke’s ravage screams echoing in your ears, the way her voice cracks around “Commander of Death.”

 _I’ll kill you_. Heavy in your bones.

Until she is gone.

And you’re left alone with the weight of your decisions resting heavy on your chest.

 _Wanheda_.

Feral.

Untrusting.

So different from the girl who fell from the sky.

The girl who captivated you.

Captured your heart.

Clarke’s anger, hatred… her _spite_ so much more than you ever would have imagined.

The way that those eyes burned into yours.

Ice blue fire.


End file.
